


Valley Forge- Winter 1778

by DiamondPanda48



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Angst, F/M, I wish this was Hamliza because I ship them too hard, Mr Non-Stop strikes again basically, teach me how to tag please
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-29
Updated: 2019-05-29
Packaged: 2020-03-20 13:17:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18993400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DiamondPanda48/pseuds/DiamondPanda48
Summary: Alexander is at his desk. Thinking. All while the rest of Washington’s men were freezing. So he does what he does best. Write.





	Valley Forge- Winter 1778

**Author's Note:**

> I’m too lazy to research for this fic, so I’ll use whatever express knowledge I have about Washington’s winter encampment at Valley Forge.

     Valley Forge.

     Winter 1778.

      _Forget those rumors_ , Alexander mournfully thought.

     Thousands of men were wasting away just outside of his relatively nice temporary residence.

     He had seen the disease and malnutrition. The brutal winter did nothing but decrease the time till General Washington’s army fell into mutiny.

     What was he assigned to do?

     Write to Congress. Compel them to give them the supplies they so desperately needed. He was beyond comprehension on why such supposed great men were foolish enough to deny the starving Continental Army food and supplies to ensure their own lives of luxury. The men who voted to battle in such perilous odds were either oblivious or simply stupid to think that the Continental Army was faring well enough to sustain itself. They were playing a foolish increasingly unwinnable game. Gamblers of fate.

     The easiest duty, to stay in warmth and write, the very feat that had gotten him so far, and yet he was unable to do.

     He was out of ways. Nothing would convince the unmovable Congress to spare some generosity to the valiant men who had endured more than the wealthy Congressmen could imagine.

     His bit of solace was knowing that he had Laurens. His dear friend. He comforted him and lead him through the darkness. The one thing that kept him going was the fact that somebody other than Washington appreciated him.

     Without Laurens, what would he be? Catharine Livingston had politely denied his romantic gestures. Of course, many women took it upon themselves to flirtatiously introduce themselves to him. They had never fitted his taste.

     He sighed. He must concentrate on his critical task. He was fully aware that he alone could turn the war to the rebels’ favor. He simply needed to write.

     He had tried. And tried. He had received nonsensical responses, all doubting whether or not the Continental Army was truly in an ‘unstable’ state as they so lightly put it.

     He sat at his desk for hours, thinking, but not writing. It was then, at perhaps 11 at night, did his Excellency decide to see to what he was doing.

     He did nor notice the General standing at the doorway, perhaps from the exhaustion of deep thoughts until he cleared his throat.

     He winced for what was about to befall him. General Washington’s temper was unreasonable at this late hour.

     He received what he expected. He somehow, day after day, held up with Washington’s brutal temper and demeanor. He could swear on his life that if his dear Laurens wasn’t present to keep him all in a singular piece, he would’ve left Washington’s command quite a while ago.

     After a ‘small’ bit of arguing with the General, His Excellency left the room to do a task of which Alexander hadn’t the faintest idea of.

     He rubbed his eyes. How long had it been since he had slept more than 3 hours at a time? Perhaps just before he left Germantown, where he had gotten 4 and a half hours. Good Lord, when would this chaos end?

     He fidgeted with his long quill. The same quill he had written with to Congress on so many occasions. It felt much too familiar. He needed a different approach.

     He could not work with old, used ideas. He needed to begin with a new start. One that would hopefully alter Congress’ perception of him.

     And that would begin with an inspiration.

     He looked at his quill. He stared hardly at it, his mind deciding on his next action. He made up his mind in just a moment.

     He felt the feather one last time before taking the writing utensil roughly and snapping it with his calloused hands. The satisfaction of it lingered. He had severed the last remaining link, other than his mind and the ashes of the nonsense from Congress, to the men who had denied them so much.

     He found another quill. A new one. It was by no means extravagant. Considering the sheer amount of time he donated towards dipping his quill into ink and tracing it onto paper, it was ironic that he purchased the cheapest writing utensils possible with his meager salary. It was simple and plain. Nothing much.

     Except that it was everything to Alexander.

     He had learned the power of ink and a quill early. He had marveled his guardians and friends, especially Ned, who he hadn’t seen for so long, with his flowery poetry and impeccable expression.

     Now, he needed to write. Write. Not in poetry, where every object had taken on new colors and shades, but hard reality with firm strictness and a deepness of almost sympathy-enforcing emotion.

     He carefully dipped his quill in the dark ink. Not knowing what wonders would soon emerge.

     The bliss of expression took over as well with the wonder of writing.

     The mania of writing began.

     He wrote throughout the night. He doubted that he stood to use the chamber pot once. This letter held the fate of the war within itself. If he failed, the Continental Army would fall with him.

     Writing, rewriting, copying, drafting, reading. That simple cycle continued through the late hours of the night and early hours of the morning. Eventually, Gilbert entered his room.

     Alexander showed his handiwork to Gilbert in a massive heap of his drafts.

     The Marquis seemed a tad bit overwhelmed with the sheer amount. Alexander chuckled with embarrassment before Gilbert requested to see the final copy. Alexander shuffled through the load until he had dug out the neatest one. Looking over it a few more times, he handed it to his friend.

     He nodded with approval.

     “Très bon, Alexander,” he said. Handing the  papers back to him, he added, “I am sure that General Washington will be contenu avec votre with your work.”

     Alexander smiled, his face drooping from exhaustion. “Mes remerciements, Gilbert,” he responded in French. “But I do not think that he will be pleased with me,” his nervousness returning. “We had une disputela nuit dernière.”

     Gilbert nodded with sympathy and asked him, “Mon ami, when was the last time you happened to sleep for a sufficient amount of time?” while looking at his sleep-deprived face. “You seem to exiger le reste with your pitoyable état, you see.”

     This was a difficult question. He couldn’t remember the answer, unless it meant 3 hours.

     “Gilbert, I do not know,” Alexander sighed with an exaggerated expression.

     “Then get some, cher ami.” Gilbert suggested, pointing towards the underused bed. “Tu ne peux pas travailler, Alexander, si on vous refuse cette nécessité fondamentale. How are to you carry out the General’s endless requests?”

    Gilbert did raise a fair point. Alexander gave in eventually.

    When Gilbert left, Alexander prepared to sleep. It was 3 hours before dawn and from what Alexander had heard from a few murmurs from outside his door, it had just snowed heavily. What few supplies they could get would be delayed for 2 and a half hours. A late start.  That would buy him around 5 hours to sleep. A luxury. He hadn’t slept that long in what seemed to him as an eternity.

     The sleep was more blissful than writing any words. He didn’t want it to end. Even in his subconsciousness, he thought about how lucky he was to be sleeping for so long.

     Until John barged in.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed. This fic was inspired by the song Valley Forge, a cut song that made it into the Hamilton Mixtape. I tried my absolute hardest to do period-typical language that would still be clean. Did I succeed?
> 
> This fic was not planned at all, and very little research was put into this because I didn’t have much time. The best research I did was to find out if Laurens and Lafayette were present at Valley Forge. No historical documents were read or checked for their dates, except for Hamilton’s letters to Catharine “Kitty” Livingston. I tried my hardest to do an accurate description of Hamilton’s thought process. I dislike the fics that make it seem like the sole reason on why he writes is because of his suffering. But I believe that he also enjoyed writing.
> 
> Please pardon the terrible French. I never learned it, so I relied on Google Translate 😐.
> 
> Pardon for this very long end note. I had a lot of explaining to do.
> 
> Kudos and constructive criticism in the comments are greatly appreciated!


End file.
